


Five Times...

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Anders Embarrassed Himself in Front of Fenris and the One Time He Didn't: Anders can only stare, somewhere between incredulous and outraged and panicking. Fenris will be here soon. This can't be happening. (Fenris/Anders slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neonowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neonowls/gifts).



> When I saw what Neon was making for me, I had to do something in return. This is that something -- modern Thedas AU setting inspired by her art, a previous ficlet, and our RPs.
> 
> Fluff. More than I would typically include when writing Fenris/Anders.

"We have no reservations under that name. I'm sorry, ser."

Anders can only stare, somewhere between incredulous and outraged and _panicking_. Fenris will be here soon. This _can't_ be happening.

" _What_? I called in a month ago. Check again." He paused. " _Please_."

The man behind the ornate podium seems more annoyed than sympathetic, his glance at the roster a token gesture, before he looks to Anders again. "As I said, no such name."

He's threatened before he finally leaves -- and as if his luck can't get any worse, Fenris is approaching, handsome in pressed jeans and a dark, collared shirt, and Anders really, really doesn't want to have to explain this.

He does anyway, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It's-- They lost the reservation." He hopes he's imagining how oppressive that brief silence feels. "I mean, there's always Vincento's, right?"

It's a _pancake_ house. Anders isn't even sure he can _think_ of a less romantic setting.

But Fenris offers that unreadable smirk and nods, and there's not much _thinking_ left to do at all. "I will see you there."

He remembers how to move his feet minutes later, when Fenris is lost in the evening crowd, and tries not to speed his way across the city.

\---

Anders can't help it; he sees Pounce and Wiggums and they see him, all too happy to wind around his ankles and mewl for his attention. They're in his arms before he knows it.

"Have you been good? _Have you_? I bet you have."

Purrs and nudges and warm fur aren't quite enough to drown out the careful clearing of a throat somewhere behind him, Fenris standing in the door way with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh, Fenris. You're... early?"

"So it would seem." Anders wonders if he imagines that smug, almost playful, tone, but it's gone too soon to tell.

"I was getting ready."

"An interesting ritual, to say the least. Don't let me interrupt."

Most definitely teasing, then.

"I'll just finish up."

To his horror, the cats race toward Fenris the moment they're set down, swarming and rubbing around _him_ instead, but he stands there and lets them, still and calm and perhaps even _curious_.

It's more than he ever expects from someone who seems so generally disinterested in pets. Anders begins to wonder just how true that is.

\---

They get along most of the time -- as long as they don't talk about business.

The problem is that what Hawke sees as "business," patients and medicine and red tape, Anders sees as unnecessary and unfair to everyone.

He doesn't mean to accuse him of being shrewd and underhanded, but it sort of slips out over dinner -- Fenris' _name day_ dinner -- and there's silence and awkward stares.

Except Fenris. He's wearing a highly disgruntled scowl.

Isabela and Sebastian are making up reasons to leave soon afterward, insisting that Hawke go along, and it's the two of them left. Anders can't find the words to express just how much of jerk move it was, but he knows he _should_.

"Look, I--"

"It's important to you."

"What?"

"The clinic," Fenris clarifies, shifting in his chair.

"It... is." Anders is waiting for the catch. It never quite comes.

"The dinner wasn't important to me. I admit... I didn't want to be here."

Anders remembers, then, the way Fenris evades and bristles before they show up, but he never stops to think why that is until now. It should make him feel better; instead, he can't help but feel like he has it all wrong in the first place.

Then those fingers clasp his, intertwining and pulling him closer as they stand.

"I would much prefer to spend the rest of the evening at home."

So they do.

\---

A fine cloud of flour settles over both of them and the _kitchen_ and the _cats_ , and really, he didn't think opening the bag would send a _fountain_ of it spewing into the air.

Fenris is attempting to shake it from his hair, where it nearly blends in, but Anders can only laugh as he reaches for him and smears more of it all over their faces.

\---

"Anders, wake up."

There are warm hands shaking at his shoulders, and he follows them, burrowing closer as he clings to the last remnants of the dream.

 _Sunlight and sand and a Fenris decidedly lacking in clothing, wading through the surf. Of course he follows_.

That chuckle, raspy and rough with sleep, suddenly sounds too real, too close. He's reluctant even as he realizes that he's dreaming, that bedsheets and blankets aren't sand and that Fenris' steady breaths aren't the call of the sea.

Then he remembers what he's like when he dreams, that he talks and squirms, and it's enough to bring everything into sharp focus.

"I didn't, did I?" But he already knows the answer.

"You did."

"I don't want to know what I said."

Fenris doesn't remind him _exactly_ , just short of words and phrases, but when he mentions beaches the next day, it's all Anders can do to keep his composure.

\---

The music slows, and he pushes through the crowd, to Fenris, and grabs him around the waist, drawing him in even as every inch of him goes rigid.

"Hey," Anders murmurs against the shell of his ear. It's then that he relaxes, that he eases against him.

He's drunk -- at least, he guesses that he is -- and he thinks that's why Fenris doesn't protest. That doesn't explain the way he curls inward, the way he presses the line of his lips to his throat and whispers something that Anders wishes desperately he could hear.

He spends the rest of the night, well into the morning, deciphering it with lips and tongue and breath and doesn't mind when all he finds are different answers, breathless growls and bitten pleas, instead.


End file.
